


At Last, Again

by Catchclaw



Series: Mental Mimosa [252]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF
Genre: Affection, Avengers: Endgame Press Tour, Blow Jobs, Consensual Lack of Condoms, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-12
Updated: 2019-04-12
Packaged: 2020-01-12 04:14:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18438818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: The worst thing about being famous is that there are never enough locked doors.





	At Last, Again

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Plot What Plot and Fame, from this [generator](http://colormayfade.tumblr.com/generator) \+ the recent flood of Avengers: Endgame press.

The worst thing about being famous is that there are never enough locked doors.

Privacy, you know you’ll have to give up; walking down the block for a Starbucks or spending Saturday afternoon at the supermarket, that’s out right away. Everybody knows your name and every angle of your face and it’s kind of like living in a perpetual _Cheers,_ being a movie star. Except you’re not supposed to drink.

In public, that is.

When you’re alone, though, behind enough security barriers and bodyguards and the right amount of locked doors, then it’s ok to go for the whiskey, the cheap stuff you drank in high school, or the fancy scotch your co-star on that period piece sent you all the way from Edinburgh. They both serve the same purpose: to make the world a little softer, a little more gray at the edges, to make it seem simpler to stretch out on the clean hotel bed and sip your way down into sleep.

But sometimes, in the small hours Sinatra sang about, there’s a knock at your door, very soft, and yet it snaps you straight awake.

 _Who_? you call, just as soft.

 _Me_ , the door says, the person on the other side.

 _Come in_ , you say, and there’s that weird click, that beep, as the electronic key you slipped him in the makeup trailer this morning whispers to the lock and then the door opens just enough for the light from the hallway to catch the dark crown of his hair and then he’s inside, moving, striding the ten steps to the bed like he owns the place--which, in moments like this, moments when your heart has kickstarted and you’re throwing back the covers, yeah, he sort of does.

 _Took you long enough_ , you grumble half-hearted, trying to hide the eagerness of your hands behind 3 AM gruff.

 _It’s busy out there tonight_ , he says, leaning into your grip on his hips as he rears back to peel off his shirt. _Lots of folks roaming the halls. Plus Mackie got to griping and wouldn’t leave, so._

 _So_. There’s a flicker in your gut that’s not jealous, it’s not, because they’re friends, Seb and Mackie, fellow shitkickers when the mood strikes them right, and you have absolute zero claim to Seb’s time and attention. In public, that is.

When you’re alone, behind the right kind of locked door, then he’s all yours.

And god help you, you’re his.

You reach for the catch of his jeans, the hopeful swell of his fly, and your mouth goes dry at the sound he makes: a short, hot hop of his breath. If you were in a different mood, you’d tease him about it, draw it out--his zipper, your tongue--and give him no end of shit. But you’re not there tonight and he isn’t either; so says his hands in your hair.

 _Mmmm_ , he says the the second you touch him, your knuckles brushing his shaft. _God. I need your mouth._

 _Yeah?_ You touch the head, turn your thumb through the drop of wet waiting there.

His hips jerk and he hums again. _Yeah_. _Wanted you all day. Can’t you tell?_

You’re still on your side and it’s awkward so you let him go for a second, sit up, tug his jeans down his thighs and get both hands on his dick.

 _Baby_ , he breathes, his throat closing like a choke. _Fuck, yes_.

In a few hours, the sun will barely be up and they’ll be whisking you somewhere, all of you piled in the back of a big SUV on your way to some talk show or other. Everyone will be grouchy (Scarlett) and/or still asleep (Ruff) and you and Seb will be two among many, co-stars, co-workers, friends. You’ll sit across from each other and you won’t touch and all you’ll be thinking about it the taste of his cock, the heat of it, the sweet, needy noises he lets out as you lick him up one side and down the other, around the head and down to the soft skin of his balls until he folds his hands around the back of your head and whispers and whimpers _Enough_.

Then he’s shoved in your mouth, hot and snug, your hands on his hips now, nails dug in, lapping and sucking and setting a pace that you can handle, that he can; you’re still learning each other. God, this shit is so new. It feels fucking fragile, having his dick down your throat, his hungry little grunts filling your ears. You’ve known each other forever, for years, and yet this thing, his skin against yours, has only been around a few months, since he crashed at your place around Christmas, so you’re still learning each other--what he likes, what you do--and you feel a tenderness towards him, towards the needs of his body, that when it’s light, when the door is wide open, confuses the hell out of you.

But none of that now, no questioning; there’s no room for it. Not now. Not here.

Here is where his pants are at his ankles and his ass is tense against your palms and he’s groaning, a low, dirty noise that sinks straight to your dick.

 _Oh, Chris_ , he says, the words tinged in wonder. _Oh, god. Shit shit shit._

You squeeze his ass, let go of it, wrap your fingers around the base of his shaft and slip the others behind his balls, up and back. He’s clenched so fucking tight. Next time, you think, half delirious, you’re gonna come with me inside of you, babe. I’m gonna look down and watch my dick disappear inside you then look up and watch your face when you say my name and you come.

 _Gonna_ , Seb gets out, the word strained hard through his teeth. _Baby, stop, fuck. I’m gonna come._

It’s only then that you realize, remember, care that he’s not wearing a condom. You’d left one on the fucking nightstand, hoping. It’s a handbreadth away. It’s right there. But you forgot. You forgot you forgot you forgot.

You don’t care.

He moans above you, hands folded over your shoulders, not quite yet a push.

 _Chris_. He sounds desperate. _Please. Jesus, you’re gonna make me_ \--

And then that’s all you want, all you’ve ever wanted since this started: to taste him like this, to have your mouth full of his spunk, to kiss him after and feel him shudder when he tastes himself, when he sucks his come off your tongue.

He could knock you away, step back and free himself from your grasp, but he doesn’t. In fact, he’s rutting now, fucking hard into the steady suck of your mouth, and you know, in the split second before he spills, how badly he wants this, too.

 _Fuck_ , Seb says, thready and helpless. _Oh, god. I love--_

Then his hips still and he’s groaning and you’re petting his hole while he pumps himself over your tongue and you swallow because it feels right and that only makes him come more, makes him dig his nails into your shoulders and let out a hurt little sound that drives you damn well out of your head.

 _Do you like that?_ A thumb on your lips now, tracing the place where his body meets yours. _All that mess I made for you? You do, don’t you? Oh, god. Yeah, you do._

Then he is pushing and he is shoving and you’re flat on your back and he’s diving in behind, straddling, putting his knees on either side of your hips.

 _Kiss me_ , you say ragged, hopeful. You don’t have to ask twice.

You come quick in his fist, the bloom of his spunk on your lips, the soft echo of his voice in your ear.

 _I should’ve turned the light on_ , Seb says. _When you started sucking me. Should’ve watched you swallow me._

You’re humping his grip, wild, making more noise than you should, but you don’t care. You just want to get off, want to feel Seb make you.

 _Yeah?_ He brings your mouths together, moans soft when you do. _Something you want, Evans_?

 _You_ , you say, stupid and far too fucking loud. _Jesus, Seb. It’s you. I want you_.

The clock says 4:30 when he climbs out of bed and fumbles for his jeans in the dark. You lay there, silent, tracing the last of the night’s quiet. There’s too much that you want to say.

How did this go from getting smashed on Christmas bourbon and falling rowdy into bed to something that feels like this: wistful and hopeful and the good kind of sad, a yearning, the kind of loneliness that’s finite, that you know will come to happy end. You’ll fly out of here this afternoon and by this time tomorrow morning be in a different city, a different fancy hotel, but Seb will be right there with you, his hand on your cheek, his mouth sweet and lazy, at last, again, on your own.

 _Don’t forget your key_ , you say.

He smiles and bites at your lip. _‘Course not,_ he murmurs. _Don't_ _want you locking me out._


End file.
